No Peace on Gallifrey- Part 1: Cruciform Rising
by Andrew Bohman
Summary: (An Account of the Last Great Time War) As war rages, hell rises. Gallifrey and Skaro are locked in a vicious conflict which has extended its gruesome fingers across the span of the universe. None can escape the Last Great Time War, a fact which the Doctor has finally come to terms with. The reborn warrior now plunges into the fray to face horrors unimaginable—and not just Daleks.
1. Prologue: The End of the Doctor

**NO PEACE ON GALLIFREY**

**An Account of the Last Great Time War**

_A Doctor Who Fan Fiction_

_by Andrew Bohman_

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Copyright © Andrew Bohman 2014 (Unregistered)

_Doctor Who_ is a production of the British Broadcasting Corporation.

This narrative is an unofficial work of fan fiction, justified by Fair Use rights. The primary concepts and characters presented in this narrative are the property of the BBC, and the majority of secondary events and concepts are derived from ideas presented within _Doctor Who_. The author maintains the rights to all of the original ideas presented within this work.

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***Story begins after next line break. Scroll down past Introduction and Synopses to read***

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**Introduction**

_**Author's Note**_

"_You weren't there in the final days of the War. You never saw what was born. But if the Time Lock's broken, then everything's coming through. Not just the Daleks, but the Skaro Degradations, the Horde of Travesties, the Nightmare Child, the Could-Have-Been King with his army of Meanwhiles and Neverweres. The War turned into hell. And that's what you've opened, right above the Earth. Hell is descending."_

_-The Tenth Doctor to the Master, "The End of Time, Part II"_

This story focuses on recounting the Time War from the War Doctor's perspective, expanding on the scraps of information we've gained from dialogue and clips within the show. The plotline begins right after "The Night of the Doctor" and ends right before "The Day of the Doctor." It covers the topics of time warfare and battles, the Cruciform, the Master, the Skaro Degradations, the Horde of Travesties, the Nightmare Child, the Could-Have-Been King and his army, Dalek prison camps, the Fall of Arcadia— just to name a few of the main points. But this isn't just a collection of ideas I might think are cool, I've tried to make it good, layered writing, emulating the War Doctor's character as best I can while exploring the deep internal conflicts he faces, in addition to describing the general trauma of the war. This isn't romanticized in any sense of the world—I'm aiming at an _All Quiet on the Western Front_-style interpretation of the Time War, to make it as conceptually realistic as possible. Gritty, emotional writing is what I'm going for here. I include some sciency-wiency inventions as well, some of which may be hard to understand due to their complexity and my scattered thought processes, but we're Whovians, eh? We're used to that. Allons-y!

_-Andrew Bohman, 2014_

*This Author's Note has been condensed. See profile for more detailed information on the author and creation process of this fan fiction.*

_***Work In Progress Notice and Guarantee of Originality***_

From what I've recently learned, the BBC has announced releasing a Time War/War Doctor book. I started this fan-fiction months before the announcement, so I was partly excited but mostly disappointed when I heard that. I'm determined to avoid that book until I finish this, to make sure its concepts don't intermingle with mine. I worked hard to complete a decent portion of the first book to publish on as a work-in-progress the day before _Engines of War_ was released, to fully solidify this as my own original work without question. Also, as a side note, I know that there are thousands of _Doctor Who_ fan-fictions out there, and probably scores deal with the same material I'm exploring. Some things are bound to overlap. All of the ideas I present are totally original, based only on what's presented in the actual show. Apologies if any of my ideas are similar to anyone else's, it's completely coincidental.

Included so far is the prologue and first three chapters of the first book. These chapters set the stage, establish the tone, and introduce most of the main ideas of the first volume. They take place before the action really sets in, and hence may be a bit dry. Bear with me for a little while, it'll pick up the pace. They also have not yet been fully edited, so there may be minor literary alterations within these chapters as the writing process progresses, but the content will not change. I also guarantee that at least the first book will be completed, and it can serve as a standalone. The following books are still in planning, and whether or not they will be realized depends on my personal drive and schedule to work on them, and the reception of the first. This notice will be removed upon their completion.

_***Notice on the Spellings***_

I use American spellings and double quotation marks instead of single. As for the capitalization of "TARDIS," to make a distinction, I only put the word in all-caps when referring to the Doctor's TARDIS, when referring to another Tardis I use standard caps. My reasoning for this is actually a bit of "headcanon," I think it's called. In "An Unearthly Child," it is established that Susan came up with the name "TARDIS: Time And Relative Dimensions In Space." However, all Time Lords call their time machines Tardises, so how could one 15-year-old name the most important machines for a whole race? That doesn't seem very likely to me. My reasoning is that they have always been called "Tardises," but it was just a name, and Susan only came up with the acronym to fit it. Hence, the Doctor's TARDIS is in all caps.

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**Synopses**

**No Peace on Gallifrey (Series)**

As war rages, hell rises. Gallifrey and Skaro are locked in a vicious conflict which has extended its gruesome fingers across the span of the universe. None can escape the Last Great Time War, a fact which the Doctor has finally come to terms with. The reborn warrior now plunges into the fray to face horrors unimaginable—and not just the Daleks.

**Prologue – The End of the Doctor**

The newly regenerated War Doctor prepares himself for the long, hard years ahead of him. And he learns, very quickly, that they will encompass the greatest trial he will ever face.

**Part I – Cruciform Rising**

In the early days of the Time War, the War Doctor is tasked with installing a massive Gallifreyan device in the heart of the front lines—a device which will separate the war from the rest of the universe: the Cruciform. Fighting by his side is a fleet of Battle Tardises, an army of Time Lords, and a very old friend—or foe, rather. But establishing a Time Lock in the heart of an ever-raging war zone is no simple mission, one which is only made more difficult by the mounting threat of the Daleks and their frightening warfare, warfare which grows ever stronger as time progresses.

**Parts II-VI**

_*IN PLANNING*_

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**Prologue: The End of the Doctor**

A barren landscape stretched into the horizon, its jagged rock formations poking out of the ground haphazardly. Scattered hollows and caverns were etched throughout the small mountains of stone while wind gently stirred the dust upon them. The surface was a rich rusty red, enhanced by trickles of light which spread out from a rising sun. The spectacle appeared to sprawl on forever, a masterful carving engraved by an ancient alliance of time and the elements. It was dawn on the planet of Karn. But the land was not alone in experiencing a new beginning.

Perched upon a ledge just outside a cave was a very old man. He didn't look old with his mop of brown hair and youthful features, but inside he carried the memories of centuries. His appearance was that of a hardened warrior towards the end of his prime, not quite middle-aged, wearing a battered coat and trousers, scuffed boots, and a bandolier slung over his shoulder. Staring into the distance were his ageless eyes, full of sorrow for the times past and foreboding for the times to come. A war raged deep within him as it did ahead of him.

The man stepped down from the ledge and began to descend a walkway hewn into the side of a cliff, towards the valley below. Wreckage was strewn across the floor of the gorge and small fires were alight irregularly throughout the chunks of debris. The place stank of death, some of it fresh. The man trudged his way through it, ignoring a swarm of abnormally large insects which thronged around a thin pool of blood on the ground. He stepped over a particularly smoky fire before stopping and shoving his hand into a pocket to retrieve a key. A few paces ahead of him was a scuffed up London police box standing triumphantly amidst the crash scene, virtually unscathed save for a few scratches and a considerable coat of dust. The man approached the object and shoved the key into a lock on the door.

He paused for a moment, his calloused hand tenderly resting on the blue wooden frame. Despite his gruff appearance, the man seemed to share a certain level of intimacy with this strange blue structure, as if it were his one true lasting friend—the single thing in all the universe which this grizzled warrior had a soft spot for.

He walked inside. Quite remarkable about the small police box was the incredible size of its interior. Its inside was bigger than its outside. It contained a spacious room resembling a comfortable parlor with plenty of furniture, colorful rugs spread out on the floor, various warm light sources including a candelabra and lanterns, several clocks, mirrors, coat hangers, bookshelves— a host of inviting, homey artifacts. But what stood out most of all was in the middle of the room: a large hexagonal platform surrounded by tall metal pillars with a seemingly wooden control center and a column, made of a sort of luminous blue crystal, protruding from its middle. The warrior proceeded towards the platform, all the while in deep thought.

"Doctor no more…" he whispered to himself in a slightly hoarse voice. He caressed the console and spoke as if addressing it, "I've changed a bit, old girl. You'll have to get used to me again." There was a pause as the man looked around. "And you'll have to change too. I can't be fighting a war in this… retirement home of a space-time machine," he gestured to the room around him, a hint of a smile in his voice as he spoke.

He moved over to a screen in the console and began punching buttons around it. "You will be… my Type-40 Battle TARDIS," he mused to himself. "We'll show up those flashy Type-500 monstrosities the Time Lords will be using on Gallifrey, or whatever number they've got to these days."

He continued his work on the screen, completely immersed as he toyed with the controls. All the while, a faint glimmer of light touched his sad eyes. He had this one moment to create before spending the years ahead of him destroying.

Lingering behind the traces of brightness and hope which occasionally graced this man's eyes was an ever-palpable pain. In his past he was known to many as the Doctor, a great and wise physician of the universe; then his eyes were full of youth and excitement. He defended, but never attacked. But now, he was a soldier bred for battle. His whole being, his entire purpose had been altered within a moment, and he felt that deep within him. He had given up resisting. Now his duty was to enter the greatest trial and most horrific time of his long, long life. In the past he had his share of trauma, death, and heartbreak, and he suffered enough loneliness to last a hundred lifetimes, but none of it would compare to this. The hurt behind his eyes was fueled by old wounds, by regret, by grief, and most of all by dread. The warrior was weary of battle before he had even begun to fight.

But he locked this sadness inside, for now.

Hours had passed while he pored over his creation, though he hardly felt it. Time had always been relative to him. A light smile tugged on the corner of his mouth, and he stepped back to gaze at this faithful console one last time.

"Off to storage with you, now. It was nice while it lasted," he touched the central column with the tips of his fingers. "But it's time for a new chapter, for the both of us."

_Now for a reset run,_ he thought to himself.

He twisted a few controls, jabbed at a button or two, and struck a lever, causing the whole room to rumble and shudder. Ancient engines from deep within the machine began to wheeze and groan, a strange yet somewhat beautiful sound to those who knew it. The sapphire column jutting from the center of the console started to pump up and down. As the room convulsed, the man gripped one of the metal pillars for support. Then it all stopped. The control column began to softly slide downward, its blue glow disappearing into the heart of the machine. All the lights in the room dimmed down to gradually shut off, and the man headed to the doors. The inside was about to change, as he had. He slipped out through the thin doors and tugged them shut behind him. It closed and locked with a slight click, all within a moment—but the feel of the air revealed what a grave mistake he had made.

Outside of the phone box was an unexpectedly jarring sight. The warrior had set the coordinates for the nearby planet of Alderfrey, a lush Gallifreyan colony. But what lie before him was not the thriving trade center he remembered from long ago. This planet was a black wasteland as far as the eye could see. The bodies of men, women, and children lay in irregular heaps across the horizon, some of them in more than one pile. Many were twisted beyond recognition, but others' final expressions of terror were still intact, though sometimes only the face remained amidst a fully dissolved body of cinders. Most of them, he imagined, were now a part of the moist dust which now poisoned the air and clogged his lungs. The moisture from the cool brooks had evaporated into a scalding steam which coursed through the atmosphere alongside the dust, making it all dangerously and painfully hot and humid. The expansive flora had been reduced to ashes, and only charred stumps remained of the famous giant Traikesta trees, which once stretched thousands of feet into the air and shaded entire villages with but a few branches. The soil had been churned by the hateful thrusts of powerful weaponry, the rocks and boulders had crumbled into dust, mountains had been kicked to their knees, buildings leveled, mines unearthed, metals smelted together—one would not have been able to distinguish it from Skaro itself. This was not a battle zone. This was a massacre site.

The warrior covered his stinging eyes with the crook of his elbow, both to keep the hostile air from blinding him and to hide the atrocity before him. He moaned softly to himself—never in all his years had he seen anything so wretched. "This is what I'm getting into," he whispered. "This will be all that populates the remainder of my life…" He clenched his jaw. "_So be it_."

A wind began to stir, swirling the sands of death. The polluted air began to pelt the man with increasing vigor, nearly burning his flesh. He was sweating profusely, which only caused the horrible dust to cake on his skin and clothing. He turned and sank to his knees, pressed his body into the blue box for shelter, and wrapped his arms around his head. The cool wood paneling of the machine came as a beautiful relief to the bare skin of his face, like the deep blue waters of a sea.

He could hear a sort of shifting sound within the ship, as if the rooms were rearranging themselves. His mind throbbed impatiently, desperately crying out for the renovation to be completed so he could leap back into its familiar arms. But it would take another hour at least for it to finish. Until then, he had to wait.

His mind could not shove aside the images which it had just been fed. As they raced through his brain, several things in particular disturbed him especially. For one, there was not a single sign of a fallen Dalek craft or even a Dalek—as if they suffered no casualties. Second, there was no sign of any resistance. There were no staser guns, no battle Tardises, no Time Lord soldier bodies, only dead civilians—innocent, peaceful descendants of Gallifrey who had been swept up into hell itself. They might not have even known why a horde of murderous metal drones thundered upon them with such hatred, or why their noble and powerful allies (like gods to them!) did not swoop down and smite the enemy in their defense or even show up to help at all. They had no weapons, no defenses, and no help. The war had come upon them swiftly and disastrously, impartially killing every member of their society. And what were they to the Time Lords? Collateral damage. This disturbed the warrior more than the mass death itself.

The wind intensified. The weather had been shocked out of equilibrium in the fire, and now a storm was brewing. The man huddled closer to the box to keep from being carried away, and cried out audibly as he felt objects smacking against his back. A shudder of repugnance coursed up his spine as he realized what they were. He felt a hand grip his shoulder—the stiff, clutched hand of a disembodied arm. He froze, tensely and silently until it was graciously knocked away by something else—a head by the feel of it. The minutes passed like days.

Inside the machine, the shifting noise stopped. Life began to hum as its machinery was rebooted, and that simple electronic buzzing was like a chorus of angels to the warrior. He shoved the key into the lock, turning it as quickly as he could (which didn't feel nearly quick enough) and burst through the doors, turning to shut them with all his might. The interior felt wonderfully refreshing and new.

"I am _never_ remodeling again without visiting the planet _before_ I strand myself on it. Idiot…" He rubbed the thick layer of dirt from his eyes and turned around to survey his new home. A smile lit up on his filthy face. "Much better. But in all honesty, I can't say it was worth the wait." The new interior was gray, white, and gold—brightly lit and starkly lain out. The walls were white and covered in roundels, and yellow coral-like pillars seemed to grow out of them, giving the feel of a marriage of mechanical and organic components. The floor was spacious with a raised wide circular gray disk, with plenty of room to run around in. Thick black cabling hung around across the whole setting, easily accessible for quick maintenance, which presented a sort of workshop appearance. And at its heart was the glorious console—bronze-colored and rounded, seeming to rise up out of the ground like a curvy vase. The column was an opalescent white, rising up to the ceiling.

Something on the floor caught the proud owner's eye—"How considerate! You shouldn't have. You never do fail to please, old girl." He gratefully strode up to the large bucket of water and plunged his head and shoulders into its chilled contents. A few minutes later, he was acceptably freed from the awful grime which had coated him. "Good enough to present myself before the High Council, at least."

He shoved the bucket into a side room and, dripping wet, began to survey his new console. Part of a device jutted out from a hole: a metal handle with a red light at the end. "And a new sonic screwdriver." He withdrew it. _It has a nice feel to it. I'd better install a weapon setting, for my purposes._ That snapped him back into reality. His mood turned cold once again.

"New TARDIS, new screwdriver, new… _me_. I suppose I'm as prepared as I'll ever be."

He'd waited long enough, and now was the time. Reluctantly, he dialed in the coordinates, pushing each button deliberately. His hand slid around a lever, and paused. He pushed it down. "And so it begins."

The room began to convulse while the engines shuddered to life. And the War Doctor plunged into the Time War.


	2. Chapter 1

**Part 1: Cruciform Rising**

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**Chapter 1**

Soaring above the Gallifreyan plains was the colossal Citadel of the Time Lords. Its spires towered above a city to stroke the orange sky, framed by a glasslike globe which blossomed from a base of rock. A canyon moat surrounded the Citadel, with twelve threadlike bridges stretching out to a sprawling city like the spindles of a great wheel. Within the dome was the core of the city, and at its heart stood the Panopticon Tower, home of the High Council of the Time Lords—the governing body of the most powerful race in all of time. The two stately mountains of Solace and Solitude guarded the outer reaches of the city like ancient sentinels born from the crust of Gallifrey. It was the Capitol of the universe's defenders, a monument of the last hope against the Daleks.

Within the inner chambers of the Panopticon, the sound of whirring engines spontaneously grew from silence. The battered TARDIS of the man who was once the Doctor materialized near the back wall, as if slipping in for a temporary visit. The doors thrust inward and out stepped the War Doctor, his face set with grim determination. He took no time to admire the lavish anteroom around him, heading straight towards a massive set of double doors.

The Panopticon itself was a colossal room of great prestige. Six-sided—six being the sacred number of the Time Lords—and about a quarter of a mile high, it was the ceremonial home of the main oligarchical governing body, the High Council. A vast series of semicircular balconies fluted the walls, empty at the moment but capable of holding the full outer council and all who might attend important sessions. Every facet of the décor cried regality. Flowing gold and red tapestries stretched from floor to ceiling, and beautiful circular Gallifreyan inscriptions were etched across the surfaces of the walls. Looking down upon the room from the ceiling was a large Seal of Rassilon, the insignia inlaid with a luminous golden metal, serving as the main light source for the space below. In the center of the floor was a raised platform with a long rectangular table, at which the members of the Inner High Council were seated, their gaudy ceremonial head crests jutting up from their backs. At the head of the table stood the Lord President of Gallifrey himself, the first, oldest, and greatest of all Time Lords: Rassilon, returned from the stasis of immortality. In his new form, he wore a strong, chiseled face and a simple but noble red robe, with a single metal gauntlet on one hand. He seemed the epitome of leadership, with his proud, powerful manner and middle-aged appearance. This was a man who looked very much like the ruler of a universe. At the table around him were the other members of the council, the Chancellor, various Cardinals, and seated off to a podium-like desk on one side of the platform were the two leaders of the War Council: the mighty old General of the Time Lord Fleet and his trusted advisor, Androgar.

The group was quietly discussing amongst themselves when the enormous doors to the Panopticon sprang open and a man stormed in. Two guards on either side of the door jumped to action and pointed their weapons at him. Rassilon, who was directly facing the doors, stood to his feet to glare down at the intruder.

"Who dares to interrupt this private meeting?" he boomed in a deep, masculine voice. Such a voice carried the thick air of presence and command.

"Who dares to treat a former President of Gallifrey like an enemy?" the War Doctor retorted in an equally commanding voice. He nodded to the guards. "Point those things aside, lads, or you'll hurt someone." They stood still.

Rassilon softened slightly and cocked his head back. "Doctor, I presume?"

"I don't go by that name any longer. Refer to me as the Warrior, the Renegade, or even the War Doctor, if you absolutely must. But not the Doctor." He paused for a moment. "Rassilon? I thought you were dead—or rather alive in the curse of immortality. Since when did you decide to leave that dreadful tower?"

"I have returned in corporeal state to lead my people once more, in their greatest trial, and to smite the scourge which plagues us."

"Quite the bravura, as always, Lord President." He gestured to the two soldiers. "When are these two going to put those guns away? I never liked being spoken to with some sort of barrel shoved in my face."

"Stand down." In one motion the guards returned to their initial position, weapons upward.

"That's better." The War Doctor scanned the room in front of him. "I haven't been keeping up very well with this war. Tell me how it fares."

At Rassilon's nod, the General spoke, "This Time War, though conflict has been raging for years, has only officially begun in the last few months, with the official declaration of war by the Time Lords following the Daleks' attack on Gallifrey," he spat the name "Dalek" with rancor, "As you know, the Daleks have marauded the universe ever since their existence, with the ultimate goal of complete supremacy. Their atrocities were outnumbered, and after destroying countless civilizations, committing genocide upon genocide, we had no choice but to intervene against them. They took notice, and realizing that we are the greatest and only threat that stands in their way, began to attack our own colonies. The forces of Skaro have all directed towards us. We have declared total war on the Daleks, and direct our full efforts at eliminating them entirely, before they exterminate us all. But this conflict has spread all across the reaches of the universe, and continues to do so. But the Time Lords are superior in might and technology, so it is only a matter of time before victory is achieved. We employ over a million full-fledged Battle Tardises. It is certain that we will win."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, General. The Daleks are not a petty race which can be simply exterminated with time—they are master exterminators, as they so often remind us. They advance rapidly, strike swiftly and without mercy, work logically and efficiently, and have the endless drive of pure hatred. Do not underestimate the poisonous power of hatred."

The General looked around in irritation, muttering to Androgar, "Who does this man think he is?" He said out loud, "Why is this arrogant renegade Time Lord lecturing the government of Gallifrey like he owns the place?"

Rassilon glanced at him but paid no heed to his protests. "Do you intend to join this war, Renegade?"

The War Doctor hesitated for a moment, but ignored the question. "Lords and Ladies of the High Council, I have come to you with a request of grave importance. This war may affect the whole universe, but it need not destroy the whole universe. In a conflict between the Daleks and the Time Lords, whole planets and races have been destroyed. Zygos, Polymos, Kolox… Alderfrey—all totally obliterated. And as a result, the peoples of the universe have begun to lose the distinction between Dalek and Time Lord! Continue the war as you must—but in the name of common decency do something, _something_, to end this 'collateral damage!'"

The council members were taken aback at his manner. A direct insult! Comparing Time Lords to Daleks so openly?

"And what would you advise, Renegade?" Rassilon said.

"Anything which will enclose the war. I would suggest a massive Time Lock around Gallifrey, Skaro, and the space between."

The General protested, "Ridiculous! Such a lock would be a serious strategic disadvantage. Not only would time warfare would be severely limited, but such a drastic measure may very well permanently cut us off from the universe we're trying to protect!"

"Time warfare being held in check is one of the main points! It will hold both sides accountable, preventing either from getting too clever—or foolish, rather— and trying to attack across time. Linear warfare is much easier to manage, and less risky. You of all people should know that, General."

Rassilon seated himself. "Though we have not yet informed the War Council or the Outer High Council, the Inner Council has indeed been considering such a measure. You need not convince us, Renegade. In fact, we have already commissioned a team of scientists to develop the technology for such a feat."

The General was aghast. "My Lord President, why didn't you consult—"

"Silence, General. Your mind is one of war. In time you may understand."

The Doctor nodded his head in a slight bow of gratitude to Rassilon. "I am very glad we are in agreement, Lord President. Tell me, what is this program developing?"

"The scientists have devised a device, currently under construction in a base in Southern Gallifrey. It is called the Cruciform: a machine capable of generating a Time Lock over the span of up to a million cubic light years. The boundary of the Lock has been planned to encompass all of Gallifrey, Skaro, their nearby colonies and moons, and the 200 thousand light-year channel in between. That would ensure complete enclosure of all Daleks and Time Lords, and would seal us off—both spatially and temporally—from the rest of the universe.

"Take a seat at the foot of the table, Renegade." He gestured with his gauntleted hand and a chair rose from the ground at the other end of the table. The War Doctor obeyed. "I'll let our Lord Cardinal of Technological Development, Lucivus, explain the details to you."

Cardinal Lucivus was a slight, wiry man with a bald head and an aquiline nose. One would expect a pair of wire spectacles to rest on the bridge of his nose, if not for the vision-correcting medical equipment his people possessed. His voice was shockingly deep, in contrast to his appearance, "The Lord President has covered most of the main points regarding the Cruciform project. I will expound upon some of them. You are probably familiar with basic Time Lock technology, and this type is merely expanded on a larger scale with more sophisticated attachments. It creates a pocket universe which overlaps the, shall we call it the main universe, and pinches off the corresponding section of the Time Vortex. This pocket universe occupies the same space it did while a part of the main universe, except it is completely sealed off. It can be observed from the main universe, but nothing can cross between the boundary. Like a bubble within a bubble, in simple terms. Do you follow me, Renegade?"

"Yes, of course. I'm usually the one talking like this. Carry on."

"I'll skip over the lengthy details about how it treats time from the outside, in order to avoid going on too long, but it prevents anyone in the main universe from entering the space of the Time Lock during any time period. It is sealed off entirely from all of time and space. It gives latitude for those who have travelled or will travel to that space in different time periods before the Lock was established, but that's where the headache comes into play. I'll spare you that.

"The Cruciform is, in appearance, an enormous space station. It nearly equals the size of the city of Arcadia. As its name implies, it is shaped like a cross, but with one long Shaft and two intersecting beams instead of one, all perpendicular to each other. The Shaft is the body of the device, and serves as a medium between the pocket and main universes, where the machine is serviced and operated upon. One of the intersecting beams exists in the main universe, while the other exists in the pocket universe. As a result, an observer in either universe would only perceive a single cross shape. The two beams enforce and control the barriers, both spatial and temporal, and serve as a sort of link, as if they pin the universes together. At the point of intersection of the shaft and beams is a giant gate. This gate is the only way one can leave the pocket universe and enter the main. Hence, the Time Lords will still be able to enter the reaches of the universe if needed, but the Daleks will not.

"We plan on installing this device at the middle ground between Skaro and Gallifrey, from which it will also serve as a base of operations at the front lines. It will create a full length materialization barrier to prevent anything from materializing from one side to the other. That will prevent the Daleks from materializing from Skaro to Gallifrey—they would have to materialize at the barrier and physically travel through. Though it unfortunately works the other way around, if we control the middle ground it should be a strategic advantage for us, would you not agree, General?"

The General humphed quietly.

"As far as the barriers it puts on Time Warfare, we have none yet. We could use it to completely seal of the Time Vortex which corresponds with the pocket universe, but we have reservations about doing so."

"You should," the War Doctor said. "At least put proper boundaries in place so one could not travel back in time to, say, interfere with an important battle which happened to go wrong. Such violations of the laws of time may seem ridiculous to us now, but who says that no one will attempt it in the course of this war? Perhaps you could place a series of boundaries within the Time Vortex so one could not travel more than a few hours—or even a few minutes—in either direction. It would hold both sides in check, but still allow for breathing room, though I am still somewhat adverse to time warfare."

"We will take your advice into consideration, Renegade," Rassilon said, "Continue, Lord Cardinal."

"Those were the basics of what the Cruciform does, though there is much more to learn of how it operates. We can discuss those at a later date. The group of developers have made considerable progress, in part due to our use of a relative temporal enhancer—in the span of one month for us, linear time, they have been working on this project for several years. It should only be a matter of time before construction is complete."

"And when it is complete, the full High Council will take a vote on whether or not to install it," Rassilon concluded the briefing. "And while you are here, Renegade, we have another matter to discuss. One which we were debating when you interrupted so rudely. Though I must say, your timing was somewhat punctual."

The councilmembers glanced at each other. A slightly ominous air settled over the Panopticon, and the War Doctor could feel it.

"Though some in the room may not admit it," Rassilon briefly peered at the General, "the Time Lords need all the aid we can muster in this time of war. We understand that it is not some natural tendency of evil to fail, nor numbers, nor technology alone which win wars—but it requires cunning. The power of a creative mind is one which the Daleks lack—so much to the point where they enslave innocent children and infuse them with Dalek conditioning and technology to serve as creative battle controllers. The Time Lords, however, possess such minds, and we place our hope upon the greater minds. It is not out of flattery, but a simple statement of fact when I say that you are one such mind, and it is not out of conceit that I say I am one as well. We find it most fortunate that you have come to us at such time, as your mind can and will be of use if you were to offer it, but we still seek more minds to add to our ranks."

The War Doctor raised an eyebrow. "I don't like where this is going," he murmured.

"The Master, we understand, met his final end in your Eye of Harmony, though he was supposed to have been executed on Skaro—"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, are you really that thick—"

"Let me finish, Renegade!" Rassilon rumbled, flashing a sharp glare.

"The Master is one of the most ingenious children of Gallifrey that we have ever known. He was and has always been the top student of the Academy."

"The Academy doesn't measure one's brilliance, it only measures how well one can answer pointless exam questions!"

"Coming from one who nearly failed his courses."

"Wasn't worth my time."

"The point is, Renegade, that the Master could prove a useful ally in this fight."

"He's mad!"

"And that madness may be just what we need. The Master was executed on Skaro, remember. He would hate the Daleks with a passion. If a warrior brimming with hate could be pitted in mind against those masters of hate, he could do considerable damage."

"And how do you intend to resurrect him?"

The Cardinal of Medicine, a Time Lady with wispy grey-blonde hair and a slightly aged face, spoke up, "If the Master fell into your Eye of Harmony, his body would be trapped in the stationary event horizon, though it would be burned and charred beyond repair from what is essentially close contact with a small star. We could, however, use an metamorphic symbiosis regenerator to infuse within him a new cycle of regenerations, then revive him through forcible regeneration."

"How could you possibly extract him from my Eye of Harmony?"

Rassilon answered, "We have our methods. All Eyes of Harmony are copies of the original created by Omega and myself, which lies underneath this room. They are all, as their name implies, in harmony with one another. We do not need to confiscate your TARDIS and use your Eye. By landing here you have done all we need. When a duplicate Eye comes into close contact with the original, they naturally begin to exchange energy with one another, and some of that energy is in the form of information. Any differences within the duplicate eye are transferred over to the original, keeping it fully updated, so to speak. The Master's remains should now be underneath us."

"Oh… I see. You're just a bunch of dirty tricksters after all," the War Doctor said sulkily, but not without a touch of lightheartedness. He let out a sigh. "The Master is one of my oldest foes and an even older friend. He is shockingly brilliant, extraordinarily resourceful, and endlessly cunning. But to resurrect him would be a grave mistake. He is a crazed coward with no honor and only serves himself. Only if you are certain that he shares your same interests would he ever listen to you. He would feel no sense of debt or gratitude to you for bringing him back to life, and the only card you hold in your favor is his inevitable thirst for revenge against the Daleks. But even then, if this war ever ends in your favor he may very well take the Daleks' place as enemy of the universe!"

"We are willing to take that risk. After many hours of discussion, both the High Council and the War Council are in agreement."

"Do what you will, but heed by warning. The Master is not to be trusted." The War Doctor stood to march off of the platform. Just at the doors, he turned to face the council. "Yes."

Rassilon lowered his eyebrows in puzzlement.

"Yes, I have come to take my place in this war. But I am your ally, not your subordinate. I will not take orders."

"Then might I suggest you lend a hand at the front," the General said. "I'll send out a general word to the captains stationed there, so they don't box your ears and toss you to the Daleks, however much I might like that."

The War Doctor turned and pushed the doors out without a word. In the anteroom outside of the Panopticon, the blue box faded away.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

There was no rest on the front lines of the Time War. Its incessant violence was palpable even within the vacuum of space, as if the brutal quantities of energy produced were so potent as to travel through nothingness itself. With no sort of ground or gravity for reference, the embattled Tardises and Dalek ships were scattered across a massive three-dimensional plane of emptiness located tens of thousands of light-years from Gallifrey and Skaro alike. Within this middle ground, the two most powerful forces in all the universe fought with abandon, wreaking indescribable havoc. Laser beams were constantly spewing from either direction, explosions rippled across nearly every ship, and pulses of pure energy tore across the battlefield with no sign of relent. The phenomenon was a visual cacophony of red, green, and gold—radiant but horrendous.

Across the field, the atrocities of war unfolded regularly. A massive Type-210 Battle Tardis was stabbed through its heart by a Dalek Pulsar Shaft, ripping open its hull in a massive flash of blue as its Eye of Harmony collapsed and hundreds of writhing, scalded Time Lords spilled from its transdimensional interior, their mouths open in tortured, noiseless screams. A few moments later, a battered Dalek saucer self-destructed into a temporary singularity, dragging its three attackers into oblivion along with it. Nonetheless, all was completely silent in space.

But within the hull of the GTS _Solace_, nothing was silent.

"Primary proton beams armed, locked and ready for bombardment! On your orders, Captain." A young Lieutenant stood near the control console as the pilots and weapons specialists scrambled around the deck of the Type-205 Battle Tardis, each one working rapid-fire on numerous tasks. Orders babbled back and forth between various supervisors and the like, as the sound of machinery and weaponry screeched from every direction inside the giant war machine. Secondary weapons systems were constantly shooting out lasers and beams of all different types and intensities, adding considerably to the raucous body of noise.

"Hold… How far off are they?" Captain Halken was the one man in the room who was sitting down. He had a gruff voice, a head of white hair, and a sour manner, typical for an officer of his age and prominence.

A Time Lady navigator in front of an array of various screens, some holographic, spoke up to answer the question, "About eight interstellar kilometers, and nearing."

"Close enough. Fire at will."

Two of the weapons managers mashed their agile hands at the controls. Massive green light rays burst from a protrusion in the metal cylindrical hull of the Battle Tardis, pure destructive energy fed directly from the Eye of Harmony through transdimensional cabling. The energy instantaneously cut through space to meet the oncoming Dalek saucer's shields, and the point of resistance crackled as the proton beam attempted to breach them. The Tardis was met with return fire.

"Execute scatter maneuver."

The beam remained focused on the target while the ship began to dematerialize and rematerialize at random throughout a few kilometers' radius, dodging most of the Dalek fire.

"Sir, enemy shields have just reduced to 99% capacity. They're starting to weaken."

Halken stroked his chin with satisfaction. "Excellent. Continue."

The Battle Tardis hopped to a new location once more, but without any warning it met the blast of a massive energy cannon. The console rumbled and all weapons systems halted. The Dalek ship was gone.

"What was that? Lieutenant!"

"I… I don't know sir, it's like they unloaded all the energy from their shields onto us in one blast! Our weapons systems and shields are down."

"Get them back online now!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Captain," the navigator turned to him, "the Dalek ship has reappeared seven interstellar kilometers away. It looks like their shields are off—wait, they're powering up again at full strength."

The Lieutenant swiveled around in alarm. "Sensing oncoming Pulsar Shaft! The Daleks' weapons and shields are all fully online."

"How did they recover and materialize so fast?! Activate the Chameleon Circuit and rematerialize anywhere half a kilometer away until weapons are back online. As soon as they are, resume fire…"

They barely dodged the Pulsar Shaft, rematerializing next to an asteroid, cloaked to invisibility by the Chameleon Circuit.

"Lieutenant, talk. How did they manage to pull of a stunt like that? I thought Dalek materialization technology was slow and clumsy!"

"We may be underestimating them, Sir. The Daleks do advance quite rapidly. Apparently, their spatial maneuvering is now more agile. They were also able to predict where we'd materialize with shocking accuracy. I don't know how they could have done that, Sir."

He cursed under his breath. "We should be more wary next time we try any fancy footwork. Are those weapons back to full capacity?"

"Yes, they are now, sir."

"Well, what are we waiting for? Back into the fray."

The havoc resumed.

But one sound rang out through the conflict, a small glimmer of hope in the bright darkness of battle. In a storage room in the primary hall of the _Solace_, a blue box faded into view. Out stepped the War Doctor in his battered leather coat and bandolier, bracing himself amidst the turmoil of the ship. He passed through a corridor, heading towards the large door inscribed with the word "BRIDGE" in Gallifreyan. Bewildered Time Lords turned their heads in confusion as the battered-looking stranger trod through the halls so confidently.

He broke his stride as he entered the Bridge, stopping to stare at the rather impressive room. The cylindrical interior was equipped with a Panoramic Scanner—the floor, ceiling, and walls were all one giant screen, offering a complete field of vision from every direction. Six pilots stood around the central column, while eighteen other workers were stationed at holographic screens along the walls of the room. Sitting in a rather central, elevated location was the Captain, and standing beside him was his second-in-command.

The Captain turned in surprise. "Doctor? How did you get in here?"

"I flew in with my TARDIS, parked in one of your storage places, and walked here. Don't look so ruffled, I made sure to time lock it before landing in another Tardis. I'm not stupid, remember, eh… Captain Halken, is it? How did you recognize me?"

"Only you would make that horrible sound when parking, Doctor. Apart from some other rebel Time Lord, but you're the only one who'd bother to come here. That, and I received word from the General that you might be showing up sometime."

"I'm not the Doctor anymore. Address me by another name, but not Doctor."

"Why exactly are you here? We're fighting a war, and can't be bothered."

"I'm here to observe, and to help when needed."

"We don't need you. We're doing just fine by ourselves. If it weren't for the General's message, I'd throw you out of this vessel myself, _Doctor_," he spat out the name with bitter annoyance.

The War Doctor accepted the insult with raised eyebrows. "Well then, carry on, _Halken_, and don't mind me."

The old Captain swiveled back around with his attention fixed on the craft which they were engaged with. But the young Lieutenant stared at the War Doctor for a few seconds more, pondering.

"What is it, chap?"

"Sorry, Doctor—"

"Warrior, or Renegade, if you please."

"My apologies, Warrior, but is it really you? I've heard so much about you…"

The War Doctor cocked his head to the side. "From whom?"

"My… parents, Sir. I'm a direct descendent of Captain Andred of the Chancellery Guard. They all held you in highest esteem."

Realization dawned on his face. "Ah, so you must be my old companion Leela's, eh…"

"She was my great-grandmother."

"… great-grandson. Pleasure to meet you…"

"Artrid. Lieutenant of the High Gallifreyan Naval Fleet."

"Lieutenant, get back to your duties," the Captain barked.

"Apologies, sir."

The War Doctor stepped back to observe. The battle continued, beam against beam, shield against shield. It seemed a violent standstill.

"I hope you don't mind my butting in, but nothing seems to be happening."

The Captain didn't move. "Dalek Ships have less energy capacity than Gallifreyan engineering. They will weaken eventually."

"So you plan to unload on each other until the batteries run out? Doesn't sound very efficient or wise to me."

"It will work, Doctor—"

"Warrior."

"—in time. Don't have much patience for a Time Lord, do you?"

"Perhaps not, but the Daleks don't show any sign of weakening at all. In fact, they seem to be gaining the upper hand."

"Nonsense!" The captain scowled and muttered a curse once again—this man was right, and he knew it. The Dalek ship was inching its way closer to them, pushing through their Proton Shaft. The Dalek weapons continued bombarding the TARDIS shields with no sign of any loss of strength. The Time Lords began to hold their breaths—it seemed that this particular Dalek fleet was very significantly increasing in technological advancement. One could only wonder just how far their technology might go.

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Arm the Paradox Beam."

"Yes, sir."

The War Doctor furrowed his brow. "Paradox Beam? I don't like the sound of that."

The Lieutenant explained while poking at a small control podium in front of him, "Advanced Time Warfare, released from the Omega Arsenal."

"Omega Arsenal? But those weapons are forbidden!"  
"They were. The Council voted unanimously to utilize them for the sake of the war. Some of the bigger and more destructive ones are still outlawed, but most are now in use. Now every Battle TARDIS past Type-198 has a full outfitting of Time Warheads."

"So what does it do?"

"Find out for yourself, Warrior."

From deep within the belly of the ship came a low moan, and a formidable, dish-shaped weapon extended out from the outer shell of the TARDIS.

The Captain stood up and, in a booming voice yelled, "Scanner off! And… Fire!"

Inside the Bridge, the image feed cut to white, with no visual contact with the battlefield whatsoever. Outside, deep purple cup of energy kindled, filling the dish like a fireball. The Daleks halted. They knew their end was inevitable. In that second, the beam launched itself at the ship, growing in breadth to match its size. It completely enveloped the vessel, and what followed was an explosion so great as to tear a hole in the fabric of time. The ship was sucked into nothingness within an instant, and all the nearby asteroids and debris followed suit. At just the precise moment, a flash of white filled space and all was calm.

The scanners flickered back to life. All of the soldiers inside let out a collective sigh—they had survived yet another scuffle with their enemy, though it may have taken a little more to do so.

But the War Doctor stood in grave silence. "What just happened?"

The Lieutenant looked up. "We sent the Daleks back in time one half of a second. They simply crashed into themselves. The resulting paradox sucked them and everything around them into a rip in time, before the other Time Lords back home patched it up. That's why we had to turn off the scanners, though: we can't risk repercussions by witnessing the paradox, however short they may be."

"It is the duty of the Time Lords to correct paradoxes _before_ they occur. We all know the damage they wreak on time!"

"They allow the paradoxes from the beams to occur temporarily. Otherwise the weapons would not be effective. So far the Daleks don't have any effective time warheads. We control Time and its stability, so if they tried to use anything like that, we'd simply stop the paradox from happening. We use them when stakes get tricky, and we try to use them sparingly. But, the Time Lords patch the tears, so to speak, promptly and effectively."

"One can never fully heal breaches in the fabric of time. There will still be scars, and those scars will eventually add up."

"But they haven't so far." Halken turned in his chair, exhibiting a cooled, gloating satisfaction over the success. "This is War, Warrior, and the rules are different."

The War Doctor clenched his jaw. "The ethics still stand! You think that you can go around playing God, firing your Paradox Beams, shredding up Time, with no consequences? Do you have the right to risk so much for so many, just to use more effective weaponry? Your Time Warfare may end up destroying the universe before the Daleks do!"

"Ethics? In this war, do you think your infamous self-righteous morality will save you? No, I will do anything—_anything_—that will prevent my crew and my people—and this universe—from falling to the enemy!"

"Morality, Captain Halken, is the only thing which separates us from the Daleks!"

A hushed silence dropped over the Bridge. Halken's face reddened in irritation, while Artrid quietly stepped back with his head lowered. All eyes were on the two combatants.

The War Doctor continued. "I dread the day the Time Lords stand victorious over their slain enemy, after having become the very thing they sought to destroy! Be wary, that in every moment of this war, we do not degrade to that level, and that we exercise prudence in the use of power. Otherwise, it will not matter who the victor may be, the result will be the same."

"You did not come here to criticize our warfare, _Doctor_. You came here to 'observe, and help where needed,' as you put it. I suggest you accept it, or leave."

The War Doctor paused and pondered. He knew very well that he could not leave. _So this is how I must fight—even the method by which I must fight is disagreeable. Is there no solace for me at all in this, may I not even be granted a good conscience?_

Halken faced his men, cooling down from a rage. "My good fellow Time Lords, we have had quite a fine day on the front today. There have been no casualties or regenerations within our crew; we single-handedly defeated two Dalek ships, and aided in the destruction of three others. It is now time to retire. Re-engage the chameleon circuit; materialize back to the Kasterborous Sector. We'll return to the front in 12 hours."

The crew complied, each one diligently attending their individual duties with a tired relief. Lieutenant Artrid stepped down from the command platform. "So, Warrior, I suppose someone should give you a tour of a Type-205 Battle Tardis, to get an idea of how we operate. If you don't mind."

"It would be my pleasure, Lieutenant. I could use a refresher on how you work these newfangled Tardises, seeing as I'm just an old kook."

They began to stroll into the hall from the bridge.

"So just how old are you, sir?"

"Last time I checked, I was 812 years old. I'm on my eighth regeneration."

Artrid shook his head in wonder. "I suppose during the fighting I've forgotten how old the others used to get in peacetime. I'm on my seventh regeneration, only 121 years old."

The Doctor halted and stared at him in shock. "Seven regenerations within 121 years?"

"Four within this one last year. Life as a soldier takes its toll. I'm lucky I haven't been in a fallen Battle Tardis—you can't regenerate when you're killed that quickly, and even if you could there's no air. Most of us regenerate when the ship takes damage, the resulting turbulence can result in bashed-in heads, snapped necks, or getting stabbed with pieces of machinery. It happens more often than you'd think."

"So young…" he whispered, and shook his head in amazement.

"Occasionally the Daleks do take over and board a Battle Tardis, but that sort of fighting is rare. I have been exterminated once, though, in a scuffle on a Type-201. The Daleks breached the hull and boarded. Before we self-destructed the ship (which we always do in that situation), I managed to escape to the emergency teleport chamber with a few others, but not without regenerating. It's how I was promoted to First Lieutenant."

They continued on.

"This, Warrior, is the main corridor, with access from the bridge to storage, the medical center, the armory, engineering, and further on are the sleeping quarters. From here, all the other corridors branch off. We keep a crew of 100 Time Lords. Twenty-six man the bridge: two in command, four supervisors, six pilots, two navigators, ten weapons managers, and two engineers. We keep a troop of soldiers, and the rest are engineers, medics, and the like."

"That many to fly this machine? I usually do all of that alone. Over-employment, if you ask me…"

"Directly here to the right is the infirmary."

They passed through a white sliding door and entered a large hexagonal chamber with numerous beds arranged in a circular formation, fanning out from the center. Sophisticated medical equipment was arranged throughout, the majority in the very center, where a medic stood, monitoring the various equipment. Doors were centered on each of the walls, each one leading to another ward or storage.

"As you can see, empty. We've had a good day. We still have medics present to monitor the general health of our soldiers; a checkup is scheduled each day or so. Have to be certain to avoid bio weapons or any sort of physical trauma. Follow me."

They backtracked into the corridor.

"You've already been inside the storage rooms. Not much to say about that. Here's the armory. In addition to general weapons for soldiers we maintain our ship's weaponry and store our time weapons."

The walls of the armory were lined with stasers—in both rifle and pistol sizes—alongside proton shoulder cannons and a large stock of various types of energy grenades. Towards the back was another door, which they entered, where enormous chunks of machinery were held in cylindrical force fields. A group of engineers were lowering a dish-shaped object from an opening in the ceiling.

Artrid gestured around him. "Here's where we keep the time weapons. As you can see they're lowering the Paradox Beam back into storage. Each weapon is carefully guarded and shielded to prevent theft, tampering, or any sort of accident. This is the most dangerous room in the ship. That large bomb in the center of the room isn't actually a time weapon; it's what we'd use to self-destruct if the Daleks were ever to board the ship. This room would be the first to blow."

"Well, then, let's not loiter…"

"Of course. Moving along."

The War Doctor felt a dark feeling deep inside, as if he had just come face to face with death itself. _Such rooms may contain material which could potentially destroy the universe itself… And to have it in such close proximity to such monstrous beasts._ For a moment he questioned if those beasts he was referring to were the Daleks. _No, the Time Lords still have good in them, albeit clouded by desperation and fear. There is still hope for Gallifrey. Still hope for my people._ He felt a slight warmth blossoming within him as they left the armory. _My people._ In the shadow of war he had taken little thought to realize that he stood among his kin. That had never meant much to him before, but those around him had common ancestry, common culture and knowledge, common pain… It almost began to make him feel less alone. Almost.

"And now the engineering sector. You're probably quite familiar with this, as all Tardises have such a place. Ours is a little different in arrangement though."

The War Doctor was a bit taken aback to see the Eye of Harmony burning in stasis before him, a massive ball of fire suspended in an enormous room which seemed to stretch for a mile in either direction.

"As our direct power source, which needs constant attention, we keep the Eye of Harmony monitored and close by at all times. Or rather, the equipment which draws the energy from the Eye is constantly monitored. Over to the right is the room where other equipment is repaired and artificially generated, followed by a room which monitors the other equipment throughout the Tardis. The rest is all equipment which drives and controls the ship, you're familiar with it."

They left the spectacle behind and headed to the barracks.

"So, those were the main divisions of our Type-205 Battle Tardis. Of course there are hundreds more rooms, but I needn't give you the full tour. All that's left are the sleeping quarters."

They passed into another hall, this one long with many doors. "Officers get their own private quarters, other soldiers are roomed in groups of six. The rooms are all stark with plain beds, stations for cleansing oneself, and some alcoves for storing armor and personal items. Rather than old, traditional warmth and comfort to put one to sleep, we simply lie on a solid contoured slab and gas ourselves."

"Sounds cozy."

"Would you like for me to situate a room for you? I could set you up in a common room or get you your own—whatever you like."

"No, thank you Lieutenant, I prefer to stay in my own TARDIS."

"Very well then," he pointed to the second door on the left, "These are my quarters."

The officer's room was also plain, with luminous white surfaces. A bed jutted from a wall, and a few chairs were stationed next to a desk with a translucent-film computer, a step down from holographic. A bookshelf—old-fashioned and made of wood—stood opposite the bed, filled with aged, hardback tomes.

Artrid proudly patted the side of the case. "As you can see, one of my personal pleasures are books. Old volumes from the earlier days of the Time Lords. Various different subjects— history, science, mathematics, philosophy, ancient Gallifreyan culture and mythology, all of that. Some are quite rare."

The War Doctor cracked a smile as he skimmed through the labels. "Omega, Pandak, Prydonius, Pelatov, Vael, Quartinian, Borusa… Quite a fine list of authors you have here, Lieutenant. It's good to see that someone on Gallifrey still takes an interest in the old classics." He withdrew a book from the shelf and eyed it down its spine, "And not a speck of dust. I see they're well-read."

Artrid swelled a little inside and smiled, "I spend most of my free time with these. However, the lack of dust might be in part due to the air filtration systems…"

The War Doctor chuckled. "I see how it is. But these books are quite scholarly. Did you study at the Prydonian Academy?"

"I did, yes. I do love to learn, though I'm not sure why I'm so fond of it. I would have been a scholar if not for the war." He moved over to a wall and pressed into a panel. A drawer popped out. "You might appreciate this." He withdrew a small stack of slightly yellowed blank paper and a fountain pen. "Writing materials. _Real_ writing materials. I like the feel of a pen in my hands, I find it much more agreeable than dictation or using a film computer."

"And what do you write?"

"Oh, well… I write all sorts of things. Mostly inspired by what I read. Most of it's quasi-philosophical garbage and diary entries, I even do a little… well, it sounds silly these days but I even write some fiction, sometimes, though it's not very good. Sometimes it helps me escape a little from… reality. I don't show it to anyone, just myself, I…"

"I'd very much like to read some of it, Artrid, sometime in the future."

The youth blushed slightly and changed the subject, "I've been meaning to ask, could you tell me about my great-grandmother, Doc—erm, Warrior? I never did get to meet her, though I've always been curious…"

"Leela was a strong warrior. Noble-hearted, courageous, intelligent, a bit primitive in her ways but she adapted quickly. Andred was a good soldier and a fine man as well. They made a good pair, from what I understand, starting a fine line of Gallifreyan warriors. I can tell you benefit from her blood."

"Yes, well… I always had some reservations about being one-sixteenth human. I never did really talk about it much, but, I've felt a bit… alone in not being fully Time Lord."

The corner of War Doctor's mouth turned upward in a half-smile. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, being part human. The human race may seem technologically primitive to us, even at their height, but they have qualities in them which even Time Lords lack. In fact, there was a time that I wanted to be part-human so much that during my post-regeneration confusion I thought I was! No, there is no shame or loneliness in humanity. That's one of the reasons I strive so much for it." He was a bit taken aback by the honesty that came from his own mouth, but he realized that he felt a sort of paternal connection with this youth. "I can see its effects on you. Your appreciation for old books, your love of learning, even the way you speak of something you secretly disagree with. Namely, the time weapons."

The Lieutenant suddenly felt an attachment with this old warrior. Here was a man who knew his heritage, who knew his inner sufferings. He knew he could be trusted, and though he seemed a hardened young soldier from the outside, within his shell were centuries of… caring. Artrid saw that this man cared very much for everything in the universe. And that's what separated him from the other Time Lords. "I don't want to fight in the war. I don't like it," the words left him before he could think.

"Nor do I, Artrid. But I must. I would venture to say that all feel that way, to a degree."

"I know, but it goes beyond that with me. It… _bothers_ me." He took a seat at the edge of his bed. "I suffer from awful nightmares every night; every moment my eyes are closed I see the screams of my friends as they fell, the pain of death as _I_ fell. I only joined the military because it was in my bloodline. My father was a noble soldier, as was his father before him, and then to Andred, as you know. I felt a sense of responsibility. It's what you're supposed to do! All the others take their positions with determination and courage. But I'm… _afraid_. I fear pain and death. Not just my own, but for others as well. I fake courage, hide my fear, only to return to my quarters and tremble. I don't want to fight anymore. But… I must…"

"Artrid, fear is not cowardice. Facing something even though it frightens you to the core is the noblest courage there is. Being bothered by war only shows that you're still not corrupted by it."

"But the others don't seem so bothered…"

"And that's what worries me."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Well, I suppose it's time for me to return to my own TARDIS to get some rest. It's been most pleasant speaking with you, Artrid. It's good to know that I have a friend in this storm," the War Doctor stood up to leave.

"I should retire as well. Thank you, Doctor."

He hesitated for a moment at the door, the correction on his lips. But as he left the room he realized that, just this once, he didn't mind being called "Doctor" so much.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

In the darkness of the Panopticon, Lord President Rassilon stood alone. Dim light from distant torches cast faint, flickering shadows, barely illuminating the noble figure. In addition to the red robe he wore earlier was a long, wide sash of milky white crystals which draped around his neck and reached down towards the smooth, stone floor. The faceted gauntlet still clothed his left hand, while in his right he carried heavy, ornamented rod. Above all, he wore his ever-present aura of power and command, visible in his firm stance, drawn back shoulders, firmly set jaw, and his piercing blue eyes, set with thick black eyebrows. Eyes which stared ahead at a the hulking, squared stone platform in front of him, now empty of the tables and chairs of the Inner High Council. His grip around the staff tightened, and he strode forward in slow, heavy footsteps. His manner was impervious to the danger he so readily placed himself in; his drawn out movements were of boldness rather than hesitation.

At the base of the platform, between the mirrored set of carven stairs, was a slanted plane which bore the carven shape of a great eye, surrounded by swirling Gallifreyan script, with the Seal of Rassilon impressed into the iris. At the pupil of the eye was a single hole, a black opening with no apparent end, which sent chills down the spines of most who met its gaze for any amount of time. But not Rassilon.

The kingly Time Lord halted before the eye and clutched his staff with both hands, and in one strong motion shoved the rod's base into the pupil, twisting it around like a key. The Panopticon shuddered, the stone of the platform rumbling as it split in half by some invisible seam, either side moving to press against the lower walls of the stadium-like room. Sharp, icy light slashed through the dimness from the floor where the platform once stood. The stone eye was left suspended in what seemed to be thin air, streams of the offensive light framing its edges to shine upon the face of Rassilon. The very foundations of the room shifted; the floor lowered itself and slid back under the walls to make room. Thus, a colossal ball of light appeared to rise out of the ground as if to bow before its mighty maker. Flames swirled across the surface of Eye of Harmony, which floated overtop of a long, funnel-shaped pillar that collected the crackling lighting bolts which struck its head so incessantly and absorbed a constant yellow beam of artron energy through its center. The Eye was the size of a full star, held in such a space only by the transdimensional engineering which the Time Lords had mastered.

Rassilon stood before his star without flinching, resilient to the intense heat and gravitational pull only by the sash he wore. Here was a man who had dominance over stars themselves. He thrust his left hand into the air, the outstretched palm facing the star, and with a clutching motion his gauntlet glowed red. The Eye of Harmony began to move. He spun it slowly on its axis, staring directly into the fire of its surface, scanning for any irregularities. He could see occasional tiny black specks, charred objects which had fallen into any Eyes of Harmony, and he could sense the identity of each one.

Rassilon halted. He twisted his hand, and the star ceased motion. "There," he focused on a tiny blotch on the surface, one which the eyes of any other living being would be unable to see. With his gauntlet, he drew his hand in as if beckoning. The speck was drawn to him, closer and closer, flying at great speeds like a meteor falling to the surface of a star—but in this case it was falling away from the star. It twisted and spun as it soared, until it was clearly visible as the charred husk of a humanoid body. The shape grew with increasing nearness, then landed with a thud next to the feet of the Lord President, smoking and covered in black soot with glowing embers. Rassilon withdrew the key and the room returned to its original state rapidly, in only a moment's time. He turned to face the doors of the Panopticon.

"It is finished," he said in his thundering voice.

The doors opened and four Gallifreyan guards entered, each carrying the corner of what appeared to be a stretcher made of a framed film-like energy. Rassilon lifted the body onto the stretcher, invulnerable to its scorching heat, careful to avoid touching the soldiers. They ferried the burned heap out of the room. The Lord President strode into the anteroom, where his Council awaited him.

"Shall we now head to the Hall of Regeneration, Lord President?" the Chancellor inquired. Rassilon gave a single nod.

* * *

The Hall of Regeneration was located several floors above the Panopticon, and served as the medical and technological center for Time Lord regeneration. The room hosted a large metamorphic symbiosis regenerator—a complex device capable of aiding regeneration and transferring regenerative energy—as well as other feats of engineering. The regenerator was hexagonally shaped, its short walls fanning outwards and diagonally, so one could lay on them. Two bed-like recesses occupied each wall for just that purpose. In the center was a solid table accommodating the burnt carcass which Rassilon had plucked from the Eye of Harmony. The whole machine radiated with white light, and was occupied by a group of Time Lord medics and technicians. From a balcony, the council members observed the scene, their leader at the forefront.

"Bring in the prisoners," Rassilon ordered. A set of doors below the balcony opened to admit a column of men and women, all Time Lords, with two guards at either side of each. These were the scum of Gallifrey: conspirators, traitors, common criminals—the lot. Those who insulted their title of Lord or Lady of Time by committing such high crimes were kept in the prison of the Capitol. Such individuals were not in abundance due to the high level of law enforcement and responsibility among the people of Gallifrey, but they existed nonetheless.

The prisoners were escorted to the regenerator, and each was hustled into one of the twelve spots on the outside, onto which they were bound with chains of energy. Some resisted, some raised cries of objection, and others submitted with grave faces. One man with a scraggly beard repeatedly shouted, "But I only have one left! One left!" Another wept uncontrollably. But the moment their Lord President spoke, they were all silent.

"You are brought here today for one purpose: to bear the punishment you all so keenly deserve. While the Time Lords may no longer practice capital punishment, we still reserve a highest punishment to those who commit the worst crimes. You are all standing here as criminals who have lost your right to be a Time Lord. And thus, we will take that right away from you.

"Each Time Lord has a cycle of twelve regenerations, as you are all well aware. Twelve lives one can live. But these lives can be taken, and they can be given. Today, each one of you will have one regeneration taken from you. This is a direct punishment for the crimes you have committed, and the High Court of the Time Lords sees it as fitting. These regenerations will be used to revive a strong warrior to fight for the cause of Gallifrey. Hence, your punishment is to sacrifice a part of your life to give life to another. Let it be so."

At the end of the speech, some of the convicts began to moan. As the technicians activated the regenerator, those moans turned to screams. Golden energy was sucked from each and channeled through the base of the machine to feed into the corpse on the platform. The process was slow and excruciating—they were, after all, forcibly removing a part of their very life force. When the extraction was over, the cries died down. The victims had become pallid and waxy of skin, with sallow, stretched faces from complete exhaustion. Some were unconscious, others gasped for breath.

"Let this be a lesson to all who defy the law of Gallifrey."

The energy bonds were released and the guards dragged the prisoners away.

On the bed of the regenerator, energy flowed and swirled, infusing itself into the fibers of the motionless husk. Medical technicians scrambled at controls, directing the process. Such a damaged individual was difficult to repair, even with the metamorphic symbiosis regenerator to aid the process. The regeneration would easily re-create the cells of the body, but the mind was another story. Each fried brain cell would have to be revived and re-programmed as faithfully as possible by the regenerator in order to retain the original identity, using the individual's biodata extract and what little information remained in the cell. They were not even sure if such a task could be done.

The form began to glow with a deep yellow aura. The process was taking hold. Through the haze of energy one could see hands forming from what once were shapeless stubs—the skeleton was developing. The luminescence intensified, and machinery began to whirr with strain. The ash coating began to morph into skin, as if a sooty disease was being washed away from the surface. Then, it all burst into a roaring fire of healing power. Golden flames shot out to fill the regenerator, while the observers shielded their faces from with the crooks of their arms. Amidst the inferno, a cry of life sprang forth. Thus, one destroyed by fire was mended by fire.

The flames of regenerative energy dissipated in an instant, letting the newborn man's shout ring out unperturbed. His yell died and he gulped the air in rapid breaths while sitting up on the table. The onlookers stood in shocked silence. The bare Time Lord before them took the shape of a young, fit man with raven-black hair and a firm, angular face. His appearance was strong but sinister, possessing penetrating green eyes marked with a keen intelligence. A thick voice snapped, "Where am I?"

Rassilon replied with a hint of a satisfied smile, "You are in the Capitol of Gallifrey, Master. The Time Lords have use of you yet."


End file.
